Vita Protetta is a work that catches the eye but strikes deeper — into thought, into the contradictions we live with. It is not merely an image; it is a question posed to the world: can something that protects life also suppress it?
Emerging from a matte black background is a white hand — not offering, not embracing, but gripping. Enclosed in its fist is a condom, and inside it, a single egg. A symbol of origin, fragility, and potential. Yet also something more: a symbol of life held hostage within a system of protection that, paradoxically, prevents it from ever becoming.
The composition is minimal, even ascetic — and it is precisely this simplicity that gives the piece its power. The contrast between the white hand and the black surface evokes the binary logic we are so often trapped in: yes–no, life–control, protection–rejection. At the same time, the presence of the egg — delicate, tangible — evokes our awareness of physicality, fertility, but also our fear of responsibility.
This is a work about contradiction, about the tension between freedom and safety. A world that glorifies life while continuously placing conditions upon it. Vita Protetta does not moralize, nor does it accuse. It asks a question the viewer must direct inward.
Artistically, it marks a transition — a sculptural gesture rooted in the plane of a painting. A three-dimensional piece with the aesthetic of a canvas. It creates a discomforting closeness, reaching out toward the viewer, refusing indifference. The hand does not ask to be touched — it compels it.
That which protects, binds. That which gives life, is restrained. And you, the viewer, stand between them.
